


Not in This Lifetime

by Joodiff



Series: All Joodiff's Adult WtD Fic [23]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: After Spencer is wounded, Frankie returns to London to visit him in hospital. She has a drink or two afterwards... and somehow ends up going home with Boyd.Post-S5 "Cold Fusion". Adults only. Don't like, don't read.





	Not in This Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stargateloversteph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargateloversteph/gifts).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

* * *

 

**Not in This Lifetime**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

She’s not thinking about Spencer as they scramble through the imposing front door and into the wide, dark hallway beyond. He is, after all, likely to be discharged from the hospital in the next couple of days, and now she’s assured herself he is still very much alive, and in safe hands, the chafing anxiety that was with her through every mile of the morning’s drive down to London has vanished – helped on its way, no doubt, by the quick drink afterwards that became several, and the initially awkward, stilted conversation that gradually put right so many outstanding things. No, Spencer has slipped completely from Frankie’s consciousness, comprehensively replaced by the man who’s fumbling on the lights with his free hand as he maintains his tight, possessive hold on her with the other.

Though they’ve been drinking neither of them will be able to pretend later that they were drunk, but maybe that’s okay. The boundaries have shifted, the rules of engagement have changed, and perhaps the flimsy excuse an excess of alcohol could provide simply isn’t needed anymore. Blinking against the sudden flare of artificial light, Frankie forms a brief impression of old-fashioned black and white floor tiles laid in a diamond pattern, of closed internal doors and cream walls that stretch up to moulded cornices, of a steep staircase that rises into dense shadows. As her companion wheels and adjusts his grasp on her waist she forgets about her surroundings and looks up at him, both wary and expectant. Her racing heart feels as if it is thudding heavily against her ribcage.

“Frankie,” Boyd says, the name falling as some kind of statement between them.

Now is not the time to think. Stretching up on tiptoes, she kisses him again, as fully and eagerly as she did outside the pub less than half an hour ago. The immediate response is just as enthusiastic and urgent as it was then. Hungry. Needy. Greedy, even. Not at all delicate, but not aggressive, either. He tastes of whiskey and regret, and his body is harder and stronger against hers than her occasional flights of fancy ever quite conjured it. Very real, very male. Frankie draws back and exults for a moment in the uncanny dark fire that now seems to be burning in the depths of the eyes that study her with such keen intensity.

Perhaps part of him is every bit as unnerved and destabilised by the evening’s unexpected turn of events as she is. If so, another part is obviously just as determined to explore all the previously forbidden possibilities that those events have opened up.

Without warning he dips his head and kisses her neck. Feather-light, his lips then trace a direct route upwards. The breath that carries his words is warm against her skin as he murmurs a throaty, “Let’s take this upstairs.”

The lack of prevarication appeals to Frankie. No half-hearted offers of coffee or something stronger, no insistence that they should stop and think about what they’re doing. Simple. Direct. Pretty much what she would always have expected from him if she’d ever bothered to think seriously about it. She turns her head enough to allow her to nip the helix of his ear in an unambiguous but entirely non-verbal answer. The answering sharp inhalation tells her everything she needs to know, but it pales in comparison to the blatant demand of the knee that pushes between hers as he slides impatient fingers into her hair and kisses her with a demanding, edgy fervour that sends a powerful wave of heat surging through her entire body.

It’s been a long time since she felt quite like this. Too long, by far. Instinct alone sends one hand travelling down the long line of his back to his buttocks where it’s far too tempting not to squeeze as the deep, thorough kiss continues unabated. Somewhere in the crazy disorder of her thoughts is the calm, certain knowledge that what started as gruff explanation and apology is going to end in sweat and bare skin and tangled sheets. The moment when they could have said their goodbyes and walked away in opposite directions is long gone.

“Boyd…” she manages as he draws back again, her voice unintentionally husky. The fascinating glowing dark eyes settle on her again, asking a silent question that makes her shake her head in quick, silent reassurance. No change of heart, no sudden negative reassessment of the situation. Whatever she intended to say has disappeared, stolen away by delicious contemplation of the easily-interpreted wire tension she can feel in his body, of the unambiguous male hardness she can feel pressing against her through the barrier of her clothes and his.

“Upstairs?” he asks, the question so much more than it sounds.

“Lead the way.” Answer given.

Boyd takes hold of her hand, all-but pulls her up the stairs behind him as he makes a rapid ascent up into the gloom. Trusting him to lead her safely, Frankie follows him across a moonlight-quartered landing and through the door he opens. Master bedroom, she assumes, and then he switches the light on, confirming it. Big room, neutral colours. Lived-in tidy and purposefully uncluttered. Built-in wardrobes, large east-facing window. Huge bed. She doesn’t realise she’s staring at it until she catches sight of Boyd’s fleeting smirk. He releases her, crosses the room with long, quick strides, swishes the thick curtains closed with business-like brusqueness and switches on one of the matching pair of bedside lamps before shrugging out of his dark grey suit jacket and dropping it onto the easy chair by the window. She watches as he comes stalking back towards her, a big, predatory creature of clear intent.

Reaching for the wall switch beside her, Frankie banishes the bright overhead light. Soft-edged shadows form instantly, deeper in the room’s corners. Boyd halts before her, a tall, bearded figure who seems so familiar and yet simultaneously so alien. New territory. They segue easily into another kiss, slower and more exploratory. Tongues meet and tangle, hands roam. All thoughts of anything but the here and now disappear. The buttons on his shirt surrender easily and she moves without trepidation to kiss the exposed smooth plateau of his chest. The living heat of his skin is striking, the masculine scent of him entrancing. His hands find their way beneath her sweater, beneath the lightweight tee-shirt under it, and against her will her breath hitches sharply, betraying her excitement.

This was _not_ how she expected the night to end when she left Sheffield just after breakfast.

Boyd edges backwards, drawing her with him towards the bed. It’s what she wants. What she’s _always_ wanted from him, perhaps, right from the start.

Deft fingers release the smooth metal button of her jeans, tackle and defeat the metal-toothed zip below without difficulty, making her regard him with thoughtful amusement. “You’ve done that before,” she says.

The answering grin is quick and sly. “Maybe just a couple of times.”

Frankie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I bet.”

“Complaining?” he inquires, as the large hand those dextrous fingers are attached to makes its crafty ingress.

“No,” she says, her voice a fraction higher than she intends. The stupidly pragmatic part of her brain that makes her so good at her job is trying to remember what underwear she grabbed from the bedroom drawer that morning while her thoughts were full of Spencer and how bad his injuries really were.

“Good.” The deep, satisfied purr sends a tiny, delightful shockwave down her spine. The invading fingers find their mark, and she instantly ceases to care about anything else. Boyd grins at her again, and she realises just how much he’s enjoying himself. At her expense. Well, that’s okay. Let him have his fun. It’s not as if she’s not getting anything out of it. Somehow her hands are on his shoulders now, and her fingertips dig hard into the compact muscle she finds there, hidden beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. He kisses her neck again and Frankie moans. Her jeans slither down her legs of their own accord to pool on the floor around her ankles.

“Hm,” he says, straightening up and leaving her suddenly bereft and craving the wicked precision of his fingers. “You seem to be rather entangled there, Frankie.”

“Bastard,” she complains, frustrated and irked by the deliberate interruption, but he has a point. An inelegant shuffle takes her past him to the edge of the bed and she settles there to deal with the stubborn laces of the comfortable old hi-top sneakers she chose for the morning’s drive. At the same time she covertly reviews her underwear situation. Plain black knickers. Not fancy, but thankfully on the smaller side. Could be better, but could be a _lot_ worse. Boyd’s undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt as she works, Frankie realises. Undramatic and unselfconscious as he strips the garment off completely and tosses it vaguely aside. Distracted, she looks and keeps looking. Wide shoulders, deep chest. Heavier-set than he must have been in his youth, but carries it well. Her gaze rises and she finds him watching her, his head tipped slightly to one side. It’s her turn to grin. “Not bad. Not bad at all. For an old guy.”

Boyd growls and pounces almost simultaneously, his weight and inertia flattening her into the deep, comfortable mattress. She squeals – not in fear or pain – and half-heartedly attempts to fend him off. It’s an exercise in complete futility. He probably outweighs her by at least sixty pounds, maybe considerably more, and she soon discovers he’s much stronger than she thought. Too strong to even force to a draw in the spirited, surprisingly erotic tussle that ends with him kneeling astride her thighs with his hands firmly manacled around her wrists. They’re both breathing hard, and not just from the sudden exertion. Licking her lips, Frankie pouts and says, “I surrender.”

He doesn’t release her. “Yeah? Well, that’s disappointing.”

“ _Temporarily_ surrender,” she clarifies. Wriggling, she adds, “Get off me, you great dumb ox… I can’t move.”

“Well,” Boyd drawls, infuriating in his easy complacency, “that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Hiding sudden intrigue, she scowls up at him and shakes her imprisoned wrists. “What’s next? Handcuffs?”

“Sorry, left them at work,” he tells her, letting go of her wrists and settling back further on his haunches. There’s something almost… appraising… about the way he’s watching her, Frankie thinks. Almost as if he’s waiting to see if she will make the next move, or not. She wonders what he will do if she doesn’t. Deciding she doesn’t want to find out, she reaches for his belt buckle, half-expecting him to stay her hand. He doesn’t. The buckle gives way with a soft metallic jingle, releasing the belt it’s designed to secure. She unthreads the strip of supple leather, sensitive fingertips identifying the two distinct worn notches that tell her the belt has seen a considerable amount of use. Exactly the sort of detail she’s trained to notice. Hushing her overactive work brain, Frankie unfastens his suit trousers, lowers the zip. He still doesn’t stop her. Grey trunks, darker waistband. Quality brand name. Well, of _course_.

Those trunks are visibly and extravagantly tented, and she can’t restrain a gleeful smirk at the sight. “Looks like you brought your truncheon home, though, Detective Superintendent.”

“It goes everywhere _I_ go,” Boyd replies, absolutely deadpan. The smug composure lasts as long as it takes her to reach out and run a single finger along the prominent ridge still part-concealed by his trousers. He swallows hard, and she swears the dark eyes grow even darker, even more intense. His voice is thick as he turns her name into a low groan. “Frankie…”

Confirmation of the sudden power she has over him – this big brash man who marches determinedly to the sound of his own drum – puts a renewed edge of impatience on her own arousal. This time it’s her thumb she drags along the hidden length of him, and not so lightly. The answering twitch is strong and distinct, and it encourages her to slip her hand under the waistband of his trunks, keen to investigate what lies there. The answer is immediate. Smooth, hard flesh, short wiry hairs, and incredible animal heat. Prying him loose from the restrictive trunks is easy, aided by the natural spring of his cock as it rears for her. Nicely proportionate, that’s her initial, satisfied evaluation of the size of him. She closes her grip around him with the knowledgeable finesse of an expert, liking the juxtaposition of incredibly soft, sensitive skin over steely, living hardness.

Hands on his hips, Boyd inclines his head back, exposing his throat, and he makes a low-throated noise that’s somewhere between a moan and a growl. Pleased, Frankie starts to work him, not at all surprised when he thrusts into her hand in automatic counterpoint. A growing, tingling warmth between her thighs fails to distract her from her self-appointed task, but she’s very, very aware of it. Oh, yes.

A deliberate sweep of her thumb over the exposed head of his cock brings forth both another growl and the first clear bead of fluid, quickly dispersed by another precise swipe. Despite the covering of fabric, she can see – and feel – the tension in his thighs, and it makes her inquire, “Good?”

The response is instant and characteristically blunt. “Fuck, yeah…”

With her free hand, Frankie gives his thigh a light slap. “Move.”

This time he doesn’t argue. She releases him and he moves clear, rolling to the edge of the bed and finding the floor with his feet long enough to strip socks, trousers and trunks. When his shoes disappeared, Frankie isn’t sure. Naked and unembarrassed, he re-joins her as she sits up. She reaches for him again, but Boyd stops her, turns his attention to removing her sweater and tee-shirt with an efficiency and speed that makes her grin again. Clearly, he’s had considerable practice. Not a surprise at _all_. He’s less brusque dealing with her bra, making her suspect he thoroughly approves of its intricate lace, even if it doesn’t match her rather more pragmatic choice of briefs. Though perhaps, she decides very quickly, it’s the contents rather than the container that have caught his attention so thoroughly. Reaching up to thread her fingers into his thick grey hair, she inquires, “Enjoying yourself?”

His head is low, his lips are moving with concentrated focus, and the reply is distinctly muffled. “Immensely.”

Somehow her bra has become unhooked, and Frankie’s pretty damn sure she knows who’s responsible, even if she can’t quite work out how he managed it. She reaches down his body, but the distinctive hardness she can feel pressing into her bare thigh is just a fraction too far out of reach. Oh, well. Best just lie back and enjoy the moment, then. She does, closing her eyes to savour even better the pleasant sensations rolling through her as he nips and sucks and squeezes, his attention still all on her breasts. One hand still tangled in his hair, she can’t suppress a moan as she feels a hand glide down her flank, heading ever-lower.

The promising motion stops and Boyd lifts his head. There’s a touch of uncertainty in his expression as he clears his throat roughly to ask, “Are you…? I mean, is this… Could you get…? I don’t think I have any…”

It’s funny, watching him stumbling through the words, but she feels for him, too. Guessing that teasing him is very far from a good idea, Frankie nods. “Contraceptive injection every three months, without fail.”

He looks slightly bemused. “Right.”

There’s no need for her to expand further. None at all. This is the new millennium, for heaven’s sake, and she’s a thoroughly modern woman. Independent, emancipated, free to do as she chooses without censure from anyone. None of his damned business. But she hears herself mumble, “It’s to help with my per – ”

“Nothing to do with me,” he interrupts quickly, even gruffer than before. “I just wanted to make sure… you know.”

It’s excruciating. For both of them. Too sharp, too brittle, she says, “You’re not going to knock me up, Boyd. Trust me.”

He shifts position again, settling back on his haunches as he was before. His cock is at half-mast now, still interested, but no longer standing to rapt attention. He doesn’t seem to notice. Either that, or he simply doesn’t care. “Oh, I do.”

Ignoring her own near-naked state, Frankie studies him for a moment, considering the situation. Eventually, she says, “Well, this has all gone a bit weird.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. He tilts his head again, a mannerism that’s far too endearing, but his expression is solemn, almost troubled. “We don’t have to do this, you know, Frankie. If you’ve changed your mind – ”

“I haven’t,” she interrupts.

“ – then that’s okay. I’ve never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” she repeats, reaching out to rest a hand on the nearest long, muscular thigh. It seems to help. Still watching him, she considers her words carefully before continuing, “ _I_ like you, _you_ like me. We don’t work together anymore, Boyd. We can do whatever we want.”

It’s obviously the right thing to say because the predatory spark in his dark eyes reignites, and his earlier sly humour returns instantly. “Well, I know _exactly_ what I want to do…”

Hiding her amusement, Frankie raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

Boyd nods. “Mmhm. I’ll need to prise you out of those damn knickers first, though.”

“Get to it, big guy,” she tells him, a renewed wave of hot arousal surging through her body at the raw hunger visible in his expression. It helps her forget the painful awkwardness of a few moments before, and she giggles as he moves to strip the garment in question from her with inelegant but remarkably effective swiftness. She’s on the verge of mocking him for it when he pounces again, deploying his superior physical strength against her in a much more exciting and satisfying manner. Legs suddenly hooked over his broad shoulders, she yelps as he buries his head decisively between her thighs. The direct approach. Naturally.

He knows what he’s doing, she quickly discovers. He really, _really_ knows what he’s doing. Fast, fluttering caresses of his tongue followed by long, broad strokes that make her curse and snatch at the rumpled bedcovers beneath them, then try to squirm away from him as the sensations rocketing through her body become almost unbearably intense. Boyd doesn’t allow her to escape, pinioning her thighs to his shoulders with that same remarkable strength, but he slows down, gives her the time she needs to let the delicious tension build and build towards the inexorable moment when –

One restraining arm releases, and a second or two later nimble fingers replace his mouth. A blunter, heavier sensation. Frankie’s eyes snap open, and she finds him watching her along the curves of her body. He looks completely absorbed, utterly fascinated by whatever it is he reads in her taut expression. One finger starts to ease into her, then two, and she moves her tight grip from the covers to his head, fisting her hands hard into his hair. Slow and deliberate, Boyd uses the soft bristle of his beard against her skin, moving from one inner thigh to the other via the aching, far-too sensitive place in between, and Frankie yelps again. His grin is verging on the unholy, and then he plunges his head down again making her swear and writhe, caught between the merciless accuracy of his tongue and the wicked dexterity of his fingers.

“Yes,” she hears herself gasp. “Oh, God, yes… _Yes_ …”

He doesn’t let her go over the edge. Bitter disappointment and acute frustration make her swear at him as he pulls back and kneels up, his cock now pointing stiffly upwards again, his balls visibly pulled up tight, and she knows – she absolutely _knows_ – what he intends.

She’s right. Boyd bears down on her as she edges herself into a slightly more accommodating position, and a shivering shockwave passes through her as she feels just the tip of him against her. She grasps his shoulders hard, and he rocks his hips, letting her feel him while making no attempt to enter her, and again, there is wild dark fire in his eyes. Staring up at him, she can’t remember ever seeing him look as feral, as rapacious. She likes it. God help her, Frankie likes it.

Not managing to control the shivering anticipation stringing intense need through her entire body, she manages a raw, “Now…”

She’s frightened he will tease her, but he doesn’t. Her slickness has transferred to him, and the slow, deliberate way he pushes himself into her is easy, painless, and _damnbloodyfuck_ it feels so, so good. She thinks he’s there, as deep as he can get, but she’s wrong. When she doesn’t think she can take another inch of him, there is more. Slow, deliberate half-strokes open her deeper and deeper to him. Her fingernails bite into his skin, but Boyd doesn’t seem to be aware of it. Her breath hisses out as he finally seats himself as deep inside her as it’s possible to be, and then he waits, sweat gleaming on his bare skin, letting her adjust to the size and feel of him.

The teasing edge has gone from his voice as he murmurs, “All right?”

“Better,” Frankie manages, and it’s true. It’s been a while, and her body seems to be intent on impatiently reminding her exactly what she’s been missing. It’s never been her favourite sexual position, flat on her back, but as Boyd shifts his knees and pulls her legs up, she changes her mind – at least for now. He starts to move, each thrust deep and solid, stretching her, testing her, but not even slightly hurting her. She moves as much as she can in counterpoint, but it’s clear to her that _he’s_ going to set the pace, _he’s_ going to provide most of the impetus. She decides that’s okay. She’s not so attached to her egalitarian principles that she’s going to sacrifice a moment of the aching pleasure rolling through her. Instead, she watches him, watches his head go back again and his eyes close as he reaches some Zenlike plateau of concentration. Slow, steady. A rhythm that works better for her than she might have expected. He lets go of one of her legs, and the freed hand slides along her inner thigh, seeking and finding it’s highly-sensitive target. His fingers go to work, and every conscious thought disappears from Frankie’s mind.

She loses him in the slow build-up that spirals her closer and closer to the apex of release, her world becoming a closed bubble of ever-increasing tension as she shuts her eyes tight. Her thighs are shaking, but she doesn’t know it. She’s so close, so damned close… just another few thrusts and –

Boyd pulls out of her, quick and hard, and she mewls in enraged complaint, but it seems he knows exactly what he’s doing because suddenly Frankie’s on her side, upper knee raised towards her chest, and he’s behind her, one hand starting to work her again, the other guiding his cock home as he thrusts back into her. Fast, this time, the way he fucks her. Merciless, even, as if he’s given up caring about anything but getting himself there, and as quickly as possible. Not strictly true, though, not from the way his fingers continue to strum, forcing her straight back to the shuddering, almost-there point she’d reached before he suddenly disengaged.

She can hear how shallow and fast his breathing is, can feel it moist against the nape of her neck and her shoulders. He makes a sharp, guttural noise, quickly choked off, and at the same moment she feels the sharp, tell-tale way his hips jerk. He bites her, harder than he perhaps intends, and the sudden fillip of real pain is enough to push her into the wonderful, desperate internal spasms that shatter everything except their own fierce intensity. Frankie doesn’t know if she shouts his name or not. Doesn’t care. He rides her through it, panting hard, and as her long, rippling climax starts to ebb, his body relaxes and he slumps behind her, bonelessly still, the palpable hardness still inside her starting to soften until he slips free naturally.

Heart hammering hard in her chest, she snatches quick breath after quick breath, slowly but surely coming fully back to herself. When she’s capable of speech, she mumbles, “Jesus Christ…”

Boyd makes a low, inarticulate noise, but doesn’t move. Still breathing faster than usual, Frankie edges over onto her back, stares in fascination at his broad, heaving chest. His eyes are closed, his hair is wildly tousled, and he looks very much like a man who is so spent, so exhausted that he’s never going to move again.

Somewhere between amused and genuinely concerned, she tries, “Boyd…?”

Another mumble, followed by a marginally more intelligible, “Fuck…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. Decides after a moment to add a wry, “We did.”

One eye opens and squints at her. He seems stunned, almost ridiculously so. The eye closes again. “Mm.”

Without any conscious thought, Frankie turns over again, faces him. It seems entirely natural to place a soft, lingering kiss on his slightly-parted lips. Just as natural to say, “It was _so_ worth it.”

Boyd’s eyes stay closed. “Good.”

He’s not as smug as she anticipated. Then, perhaps he’s not yet quite recovered enough. Resting her head on the bare arm flung out towards her, she traces a slow, investigative line down his chest with one light finger. He doesn’t stir so she continues a lazy fingertip exploration of his torso, frowning as she encounters a small raised ridge on his flank. A quick glance confirms her immediate suspicions. Hypertrophic scarring. A flash of memory. A child’s toy, spattered with blood. A reconstructed bedroom. A pale and shocked-looking Grace coming to the lab to tell her that Boyd was on his way to hospital, stabbed not just once but _twice_ by Annie Keel’s solicitor…

“Enjoying yourself?” he enquires, sounding rather more like himself.

Hiding a flash of guilt, Frankie looks up to find him watching her. “The Keel case?”

A slow, thoughtful nod. “Something to remember it by.”

He nearly died. If Spencer and Mel hadn’t got to him as fast as they had…

And now Spencer is the one in hospital, recovering from gunshot wounds. And Mel…

Despite herself, Frankie shivers. Against her will, her mind summons a picture of Mel as she had last seen her, lying still and silent on a stainless-steel mortuary table, covered by a sheet, her blue eyes permanently closed. She’d looked so small, and so impossibly young…

“Hey,” her companion says, his voice soft. Dragged from her memories, she looks at him again, and he offers her a small, quiet smile, one that doesn’t quite hide a deep well of shared pain. “We’re here, Frankie. Here in the present.”

She understands. There’s a time to mourn the dead. This is not it. Making an effort, she sits up. Preferring the practical to the metaphysical, she asks, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Door at the end of the landing,” Boyd tells her, stretching languidly. He puts his hands behind his head, surveys her with placid imperturbability as he inquires, “Are you staying?”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Frankie admits. It’s perfectly true. She shrugs. “The original plan was to book into one of those cheap chain hotels for the night. I chucked an overnight bag in my car this morning, but – ”

“ – that’s locked in the compound at HQ,” Boyd finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

“Stay here,” he says, as if it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world. She must look faintly sceptical, because he continues, “It’s the middle of the fucking night. By the time you’ve got back over there…”

“Yeah,” she says again, not as convinced as he evidently thinks she should be.

Boyd sits up, settles cross-legged with his hands resting loosely on his thighs. “Look… I’m no bloody good at talking this sort of thing through, but I think there’s something you need to know. Whatever you think, whatever you may have heard, I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy. Sometimes things don’t work out, and that’s okay, but…” he stops, scratches at his beard, an unconscious mannerism she knows indicates stress. He exhales loudly, then starts again, “I like you, Frankie. I always bloody did. It’s up to you what you decide to do, but I’d like you to stay. Not just because it’s late, and your car’s on the other side of the damned city.”

“I _really_ need a pee,” she says, both because it’s true, and because she has no idea to react to his words.

“Go and have one, then,” he growls at her, exasperated. “For God’s _sake_ …”

“I can’t help it,” she snaps back, sharp and defensive. “Just because _you_ have a cast-iron bladder…”

“Go,” Boyd orders, pointing at the bedroom door. “Christ, and people think _I’m_ too blunt…”

Slithering off the bed, Frankie glances round for something suitable to wear. Practicality rather than modesty given that it’s a chilly October night. His clothes and hers are spread untidily across a wide swathe of the large, dark rug laid over the room’s polished floorboards. Plucking up his white shirt and shouldering into it, she answers his quizzical frown with, “It’s traditional.”

He shakes his head, mock-resigned. “Go on, get a bloody move on. Before there’s an embarrassing accident.”

Frankie goes, fumbling her way along the shadowy landing to the door at the far end. Finding the dangling light pull just inside the door, she blinks hard in the sudden glare of bright light. Shutting herself in, she doesn’t bother examining the room until after she’s relieved the considerable pressure on her complaining bladder. Once she has, she washes her hands at the big oval sink then glances around with thoughtful curiosity. Monochrome, simple, and expensive in an understated, definitely masculine way is her eventual verdict. Big, deep bath, separate large shower cubicle. Pristine white towels, lots of chrome. There’s an amusingly comprehensive array of male grooming products lined up on the glass shelf above the basin. She doesn’t investigate the contents of the mirror-fronted bathroom cabinet above, deciding that such flagrant nosiness would be a step too far. It must have been a well-used family bathroom once, she thinks, but those days are long gone.

A loud tap on the door precedes, “You done?”

“Yeah,” she says, momentarily distracted by her own reflection. Thirty-six going on about forty-five. Perhaps Boyd’s right, and staying with him instead of chasing all over London is the answer. She could certainly make use of a decent night’s sleep, after all.

“Come on, then,” is the irritable, impatient response. “To coin a bloody phrase, I _really_ need to pee.”

Contrary without really knowing why, she says, “Door’s not locked.”

Boyd appears in the doorway, naked and scowling. “Out.”

Frankie turns to face him, not bothering to hide her grin. “Shy bladder?”

“Out,” he repeats, standing back to allow her past, “and don’t go anywhere.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He shuts the door in her face, leaving her standing in the gloom listening to absolute silence. Her grin starts to widen as she counts off the passing seconds. She can picture his infuriation. Perfectly. Ingenuously, she inquires, “Plumbing still messed up, is it?”

“Fuck off, Frankie.”

“It’s a male thing,” she says to the closed door. A moment later there is the sound of heavy, sustained splashing. She smirks to herself. The toilet flushes. Water runs briefly in the sink. She waits for the door to open. It doesn’t. Another moment passes, and then she hears the solid drumming of a considerably larger and stronger water source.

The door opens, and the noise and rising steam confirm that in the big cubicle the shower is now running. Boyd looks down at her. “Coming back in?”

Once again, the direct approach works its magic on her. No bashful hesitation, no awkward insistence. Just a simple, straightforward question that demands a simple, straightforward answer. “Guess so,” she says.

At first, it’s funny, the two of them trying to manoeuvre together under the cascading water. Big for one, the glass-fronted cubicle is just a little small for two when one of those two is tall, long-limbed and ungainly. There’s a lot of deliberate splashing, a lot of spontaneous laughter, and a lot of completely unnecessary reciprocal soaping, all of which lead them down a predictably carnal road to renewed kissing and enthusiastic fumbling. She’s surprised and she’s not by just how quickly he’s hard again, dares to tease with, “Impressive.”

“‘For an old guy’?” Boyd suggests, tone and expression both sardonic.

Frankie grins at him, then yelps at the deliberate retaliatory pinch from the strong fingers moving lazily between her thighs. More arousing than painful, but a sudden shock nonetheless, and it’s then – bizarrely – that she starts to understand what the evening’s unexpected turn of events could really mean for both of them… if they wanted it to.

“I live and work in Sheffield,” she says, her soapy hand moving sure and steady on his cock.

“You do,” Boyd agrees, gazing down at her. His fingers continue their deft, expert work, increasing the needy ache spreading through her. “Three hours in the car, if the traffic’s good. An hour if you jump on a plane.”

She stares at him for a moment, then leans past him, shuts off the water and goes to work on his chest, kissing and nipping her way down to his stomach. He shifts position, shoulder against the tiles, foot braced against the edge of the shower tray. It’s subtle, but obvious, too. Smiling to herself, Frankie continues her slow, deliberate descent. His skin is beaded with water, and he smells strongly of soap. Tastes of it, too, she discovers, as she manages an awkward crouch in the confined space and starts to explore the head of his cock with just the tip of her tongue. He groans, a deep, animal noise, and one hand settles on her head, fingers lacing into her wet hair with surprising finesse. Gentle encouragement, a long, long way from the demanding insistence she half-expected.

Pleased, she goes to work with renewed enthusiasm, deploying every trick in her considerable arsenal. If he’s remotely capable of it again so soon, she’s going to make him come, and come hard. Point of principle. The straining tension in Boyd’s hips and thighs tells her just how hard he’s working to resist the impulse to thrust roughly into her mouth. The taste of soap has vanished, replaced by something saltier and much more natural. Looking up along the planes of his body, she’s not at all surprised to find him regarding her with the kind of covetous intensity that suggests he can’t quite believe his luck. Removing her mouth from him, she grins and asks, “Want me to stop?”

“Fuck’s sake, woman,” he complains, “what do _you_ think?”

Still grinning, she says, “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, shall I?”

“You can stop,” he tells her, the way his voice becomes a deep purr deceptive, “but if you do, I’m going to push you up against the tiles and fuck you right here and right now.”

“That,” Frankie retorts, tightening her fingers around his shaft, “is not exactly a disincentive.”

Boyd scowls even as he pushes urgently into her grip. “I’m _warning_ you…”

She turns her head, nips his inner thigh. “Yeah, yeah…”

He’s faster and more agile than she expects, twisting, seizing, and hauling all in one athletic movement. He releases one hand, and a second later the water begins to flow again – brutally cold for a gasping, shocking moment. There’s no real time to think about it, much less complain. He bears down on her, driving her against the tiled wall as he pulls her leg up, notching it over his hip, and she feels him flex, dipping his knees enough to give him the angle he needs. This time he is not gentle. This time he pushes into her with impatient speed and bullish strength, and Frankie grunts despite herself. It’s briefly uncomfortable – though not quite painful – and then arousal takes over. One hand clamps onto his shoulder for stability, the other finds his waist and hangs on tight as he starts to pound her with the kind of energetic enthusiasm that she’s certain will leave both of them sore tomorrow.

Close to her ear, Boyd’s voice is as rough as his breath is hot as he tells her, “I don’t make idle threats, you should know that by now.”

This time Frankie comes first, snatching her pleasure quickly and greedily, a distant part of her astounded that it happens so fast. Clutching onto him hard, she pants against his chest, barely aware of the way the water still hammering down on them both sluices down her body in fast-running rivulets. Boyd grunts and stiffens, his rhythm breaking with the last few staccato thrusts, and then his head drops heavily onto her shoulder. Done. Spent.

The water continues to fall and they cling tightly together, neither of them saying a single word. It’s okay. More than okay.

-oOo-

“‘Friends’,” she muses, burrowing a little further under the thick, ridiculously big duvet, “‘with benefits’?”

“No,” Boyd tells her. He’s propped a little more upright than she is, fiddling with the small digital alarm clock from the bedside table next to him. “That’s _not_ what I’m saying.”

“What _are_ you saying, then?” Frankie asks, trying not to sound too exasperated. “We live a hundred and seventy miles apart, Boyd. Bit of a barrier to seeing each other often enough to find out if it works, don’t you think?”

“Fucking thing,” he growls at the clock, slamming it back onto the bedside table with unnecessary force. “Why can’t anyone make anything simple, robust, and fit for bloody purpose anymore?”

“You’re just like a two-year-old when you’re tired,” Frankie informs him. “Give it here.”

He glares at her, but then does as instructed. “Set it for half-six. I’m just not comfortable with the idea of… you know.”

“What?” she demands, pressing tiny buttons until she finds the right combination to set the clock’s alarm. “Making a booty call when you’re in the mood?”

“Oh God,” he mutters, slumping deeper into the supporting pillows. “Is that really what they’re calling it nowadays?”

Frankie hands the clock back. “Half-six. Don’t tell me, you’re really an old romantic at heart and it hurts your delicate sensibilities.”

“I just think…” he starts, then regards her with sudden dark suspicion. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes,” she admits. Nudging him with her foot, she adds, “Maybe just a little. C’mon, Boyd, you were a teenager in the _‘sixties_ , for God’s sake. Pot, LSD, free love, all that sort of thing. Don’t go all reactionary on me now.”

“Lewisham wasn’t San Fran-bloody-cisco, trust me.” He shakes his head. “Oh, have it your own damn way. Go back to Sheffield in the morning, and give me a call sometime when you’ve got an itch that needs scratching, if that’s really how you want to play it.”

His truculence is real, Frankie realises, and she rolls onto her side to consider him, searching his face for any sign of humour. Finding none, she says, “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think you were interested in the possibility of… a relationship.”

“Based on _what_?” Boyd demands, scowling. “That we worked together for all those years and somehow managed not to end up in bed together?”

“Partly, I suppose.”

He shakes his head. “You said it yourself: things are different now, we can do what we want.”

“I _could_ stay,” Frankie says slowly, thinking about the logistics of the idea. “For a couple of days, anyway. I have a meeting on Monday morning that I really can’t miss, but I could drive back on Sunday night. That would give us a bit of time to… well, find our feet a bit. Decide what we want to do.”

“Good,” he says, brusque suddenly. “That’s that sorted out, then. Now, can we _please_ do something about getting some sleep? I’m ‘an old guy’, after all.”

Smirking, she digs him lightly in the ribs. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“No,” Boyd says, stretching out a hand towards the bedside lamp, “not in this lifetime.”

_\- the end -_


End file.
